


Small Hours

by spnredemption



Series: Redemption Road [34]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-18
Updated: 2012-06-18
Packaged: 2017-11-12 00:11:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/484460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spnredemption/pseuds/spnredemption
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's been a while since he's been unbalanced by a handsome face…</p>
            </blockquote>





	Small Hours

**Author's Note:**

> **Masterpost:** **[Supernatural: Redemption Road](http://spn-redemption.livejournal.com/1552.html)** (for full series info, warnings, and disclaimer)  
>  **Author:** [](http://murron.livejournal.com/profile)[**murron**](http://murron.livejournal.com/)  
>  **Characters:** Castiel, OMC  
>  **Rating:** PG  
>  **Word Count:** ~2,290  
>  **Warnings:** language  
>  **Beta:** [](http://zatnikatel.livejournal.com/profile)[**zatnikatel**](http://zatnikatel.livejournal.com/) and [](http://nyoka.livejournal.com/profile)[**nyoka**](http://nyoka.livejournal.com/)  
>  **Note:** : Part of our collection of **[DVD extras](http://spn-redemption.livejournal.com/tag/fic%3A%20dvd%20extras)** — outtakes, deleted scenes, missing scenes, and episode tags/codas that take place before, during, or following an aired episode. This coda is set between Episode 20: Smoke on the Water Part I and II.

_Caracas, Venezuela, 2003_

The kids call them _La Vela_ , 'The Night Watch' because the shelter's doors are open 24/7. Jonas and Tadzio came to Caracas two years ago and by now the two padres are familiar figures in the neighborhood. They know a lot of the families, they know the illegal drinking holes were the street gangs scout for fresh blood, they know the places were the homeless kids sleep, and they know a lot of the kids' names. It makes things easier, because people trust them, and it makes things harder because nine times out of ten, Jonas and Tadzio recognize the kids that end up dead, those who become victims of crime, those who commit crimes and are shot in the process, those who overdose, and those who fall off the grid and disappear.

When the days are too hard, Jonas and Tadzio sit on the roof of the shelter and share a bottle of Scotch, watching the city lights in the night and focusing on the kids sleeping downstairs, those who still stand a chance.

Their shelter's halfway between the city center and the _barrios_ , the shantytowns that cover the hills east of the metropolis. A lot of the kids they look after hail from there, others come from the urban districts – orphans, runaways, kids who've been abused, kicked out of their homes, who live on the streets and have no way to earn a living.

The Night Watch takes in up to two hundred teens per year. They offer counseling, protection, and training services. There are twenty beds at the shelter, nowhere near enough to meet the need, and sometimes the staff will roll out sleeping bags in the common room although they're not supposed to. They try to reunite the kids with their families if possible, try to place them in group homes if not; they work together with Social Services and charities. They get donations, too, money from within the city and overseas, food, clothes. The kids appreciate it. Most of the time.

"Look at that!" Carla says and holds up a pink sweater with blue, sequined elephants in front. "Who's gonna wear that?"

"Someone must've had a reason why they donated that," Jonas jokes. They have ten boxes of second-hand clothes, and they've already sorted about a dozen pieces onto the 'no good' pile. Most people take care of what they donate, but some sent torn-up jeans and single socks. Red Cross shipments are always a bag of surprises.

"Yeah the reason being that it's butt ugly," Clara complains. "Why can't they send us some Tommy Hilfiger, eh?" She pinches the sweater between two fingers and holds it out with a look of disgust.

"Come on Clara," Tadzio says and takes the offensive piece of clothing. "You don't need fancy clothes. You can make anything look good."

"You're a priest, man," Clara retorts and laughs. "You're not supposed to talk like that."

Tadzio winks at her, and she sticks out her tongue. Clara's one who'll make it. Sixteen years old, she came to the shelter five months ago, escaping a two-room apartment shared with ten people and a violent stepfather. She was a resident for two months, went through counseling, signed up for classes at the high school two blocks over and now lives with a home group in La Candelaria. She helps out at the shelter two times a week and wants to become a stewardess so she can go 'wherever'.

"Don't be angry at him, he's just jealous," Jonas tells Clara. "No type of clothing yet invented would improve his looks. The jug-ears alone..." He _tsks_ and shrugs as Clara cackles delightedly.

"I'd accept that as a valid judgment," Tadzio says. "If he didn't think he was Brad bloody Pitt with red hair."

"I am."

"Vanity's a sin, you know."

"Really? I wasn't aware."

"You two are crazy," Clara announces with a grin.

They've spread the clothes out on one of the tables in the common room. It's well past eight in the evening, and Harper's made them tea, a habit he can't and doesn't want to shake. They cut open the next box when Jay, one of the newer residents, comes over.

"Padre," he says. "There are folk at the door."

Jonas looks up from the donation boxes. The common room's busy: a couple of kids lounge on the couches and two boys play table tennis near the windows.

The newcomers stand in the open doorway to the common room, and they're all strangers. Jonas frowns, runs his gaze over the black leather jackets they all wear. He doesn't like it when the youngsters come here in groups; there have been incidences when gangs tried to force runaway members out of the shelter. So far Jonas and the rest of the staff have managed to defuse those situations, but it's always touch and go.

As Jonas tries to assess the group, he thinks of the rumors that have trickled into the shelter, streetkids talking about a new gang that haunts the border-zone between the city and the barrios. Some kids say people have started disappearing by the dozen, but when Jonas went to the police, they didn't know about anything, and most people in the shelter's neighborhood discredit the rumors as fabrication, urban myth of the more sordid kind.

Those black leather jackets set the alarm-bells ringing in Jonas's head, though. One of the strangers smiles at him, and Jonas doesn't like the grin at all; it's too bright to be genuine, shows off too many teeth. He realizes one of the group isn't a teenager at all. He looks more like he's closing up on thirty.

"Tadz," Jonas says.

"Yes," Tadzio answers, alert to the warning without the need for further words. Clara's turned very still, a rumpled shirt clutched between her hands. Tadzio puts her at ease with a smile, and she exhales visibly. Tadzio's steady calm is a gift, always has been.

Jonas resumes unpacking clothes before the other kids in the room pick up on the tension, and Clara joins him.

"What do they want?" Tadzio asks Jay.

The boy bites his lip. "They said they're hungry."

"Tell Garry to send them two streets over," Tadzio says. "We're not the soup kitchen."

"He did," Jay says. "They say they don't want soup."

"Comedians, huh?" Tadzio snorts. "I'll talk to them." He smiles at Jonas and chuffs him on the shoulder. "Don't hog the Tartan socks," he teases and walks away.

It's the last time he speaks to Jonas.

_Paraty, Brazil, 2012_

Harper stands in the men's room of the _Pickled Parrot_ and stares at his reflection in the mirror. He's drunk one beer too many, and it's made him lightheaded and skittish. Although the latter might have more to do with the company he brought to this place.

Cas. Castiel, named after the angel of Thursday of all things.

Harper shakes his head. It's been a while since he's been unbalanced by a handsome face. A while since he took someone he liked out for a beer, and he's damn well out of practice. Not that he was ever very good at that sort of thing.

"Don't be an ass," he tells himself, But it's no good, his stomach keeps tying itself into knots. Harper breathes out, rubs his fingertips over his forehead and pulls his wallet from the back pocket of his jeans.

Tadzio's picture has creased and faded, but his face is as familiar as it was nine years ago. Close cropped, dark curls, cheeks dimpled by a smile, and the pointed ears Tadzio refused to feel self-conscious about. Looking at his picture doesn't hurt as much as it once did, but Harper never stops missing him. He wouldn't want it any other way.

But he also misses having a partner, someone who has his back and who makes the dark more bearable. The road can be lonely, but it's not like finding someone you can trust is easy.

After he quit the church, Harper had a one-night stand out of spite. He picked up some nameless bloke, poured out all the sexual hunger he'd been told would distract him from doing God's work. It had been awful, too much, too fast, the meaningless fuck with a stranger tearing into wounds that had barely begun to heal. He'd missed Tadz even more after that, missed him so much he'd hoped it would kill him. But it never did.

He still kept his lays casual after that. He liked a few men he met but they were always civilians, not people who'd understand his job or the nightmares it left him with. The occasional turn in the sheets had been enough to tide him over, and he's kept his need for company well-lidded these last few years.

He's good with people, always has been, but with a few exceptions he likes to keep that final stretch of distance. He's never expected to meet anyone he doesn't want to lose sight of.

Cas is the first person Harper thinks might be different.

With a sigh, he puts Tadzio's picture back into his wallet. This would be so much easier if he didn't feel like a complete fool when he tried to flirt. He thinks of Dean, the older Winchester brother, and reckons he's got zero problems switching on the charm. He's got the looks and the easy-going manners that make the girls stop and stare even if he doesn't set his sights on them.

Then again, it's not girls Harper wants to win over.

Harper runs a hand back through his hair and tells himself to take it easy. This isn't rocket science, after all.

Castiel is seated where Harper left him, at a table in the far corner of the bar. Abel Bernades, the history specialist they came to meet, is gone though. The music that drifts from the speakers had turned melancholy as the hours grew late, and the TV had been switched off, its black screen reflecting the paper lanterns that dangle beneath the ceiling. Harper draws a deep breath and walks across the room. Carpe diem.

Chin in hand, Cas flips through the pages of the research folder Abel gave them. He's slipped off his flip-flops, and he rubs one bare foot against the other because he's not used to the thong between his toes. The unconscious, artless gesture shoots a pang through Harper's chest.

"Where's Abel?" Harper asks as he sits back down.

"He said to excuse him," Cas answers. He takes a swallow of his beer without looking up. "He's gone home to catch some sleep. But he's looking forward to continuing our talk tomorrow."

While Cas scans the pages, Harper checks him out with what he hopes is a furtive glance. He can't quite put his finger on why Cas has him all hot and bothered. He keeps surprising Harper, maybe that's it. One minute Cas is unassuming and quiet, the next he drops a startlingly forward comment or speaks Portuguese accent-free. He talks about God with the bitterness of someone who's been disappointed, but there's also a sad note in his voice, something that tells Harper that Cas longs for the faith he has lost. It's so easy to relate to that, it's ridiculous.

Harper turns his empty beer bottle between his palms and wonders if he shouldn't order another drink after all. More alcohol could hardly make him more nervous, could it?

Cas looks downbeat, too, the lines at the corner of his mouth sharply defined and his stubble dark against his jaw. Harper wants to take Castiel's hand but has no idea how he would react to that. Talk is easier for now, safer.

"You look like you need a nap as well," Harper says. "No offense."

"None taken," Cas answers and turns a page. "I don't sleep well."

"The beds are hard," Harper acknowledges. "It gets the kids up faster in the mornings. But I hope the room is comfortable? Not too much like a sleazy YMCA?"

The response is deadpan. "It's fun to stay at the YMCA. You can hang out with all the boys. According to the song."

Harper swallows thickly. All right, he thinks. He won't get a prompt better than this.

"It usually helps when you don't spend the night alone," Harper suggests and braces for Castiel's reaction.

Which turns out to be no reaction at all.

"Yes it does," Cas agrees. Yet he doesn't look up, he doesn't tense, he just keeps on reading. For a second Harper wonders if he'd got the brush off, but then he realizes Cas simply didn't catch his meaning.

Harper flashes a baffled smile, he can't help it. And there he'd been worrying he came on too strong.

He leans back in his chair and the tension in his gut eases a little. If he's honest, he likes that Cas doesn't fall for the usual lines. Here's one guy who requires patience, and Harper thinks he could enjoy the slow game.

"You want to walk down to the harbor?" he asks. "Fresh air can help you relax too. Takes your mind off things."

At this, Cas does look up. Damn, but his eyes are pretty. "You want to take my mind off the sea god apocalypse by walking beside the water?"

Harper laughs. "Aye."

Cas considers the idea with that little head-tilt of his. "All right," he says eventually, and he closes his book and eases the flip-flops back on his feet.

Still smiling, Harper tosses a few reais on the table and walks with Cas to the door. No doubt the fresh air will do him good, as well.


End file.
